Unfeeling Scrap of Clothing
by Phoenixflames12
Summary: 'A mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothing'- Erik 'Final Lair' A five-year-old Erik's viewpoint on the first of many masks forced upon him to hide his 'abnormality'. My first story in Phantom of the Opera so please feel free to read and review! Much love and enjoy x (Oneshot)


_**A/N: My first Phantom of the Opera story! This came about after watching a friend in a Youth Theatre Production and falling in love with the story all over again after seeing the 25th Anniversary Concert via Youtube and I just couldn't wait to write it!**_

_**Disclaimer: As I am most certainly not Andrew Lloyd Webber or Gaston Leroux- how can I possibly own the epic masterpiece that is Phantom? I am simply trying to convey my love for the story into something cohesive- please don't sue me!**_

Unfeeling scrap of clothing

'_A mask, my first unfeeling scrap of clothing'- Erik (Phantom of the Opera- Final Lair)_

The mask seems to consume him, chafe him, suffocate him as his father's thick fingers fumble with the ties that loop up behind his ears and finish in a bow at the back of his head.

He is five years old. He understands without really knowing why he understands what they are doing to him, why this barrier that hurts so much needs to be put in place, why he can feel his father's hands shake as they reach down to grasp his shoulders in a moment of painful solidarity; but even after five years of endless agony; he still doesn't understand why God would find it fitting to punish him in such a way; what he has done to deserve such endless, agonising torment at the hands of those whose job it is; they say; to try and find a cure for his _abnormality _as old ladies with hooked noses and beetle black eyes veiled behind polished monocles whisper to each other as they survey him behind the safety of their ostrich feather fans.

'Papa?' His voice jars against the mask, the lisping syllables clipping against the roof of his mouth as they stumble hesitantly off his tongue; but the older man does not reply; leaving the question to hang in the air for a fraction of a second longer than it should; before crashing, falling, smashing into a thousand tiny shards of invisible glass on the wooden ocean beneath their feet.

The plastic burns him; burns with a fire more fierce, more terrifying than any of the lotions that his physicians had applied in a desperate attempt to soothe the burning, twisted deformity that caressed his broken visage in a fierce, unrelenting embrace. It leaps and licks at his cheekbones; trailing invisible fingers of flame down his cheeks; over the bridge of his nose as without warning, he feels his hands reach up to tug it away; suddenly desperate to feel the humid stuffiness of the dining room on his face once more. It doesn't work. Almost at once he feels thick fingers wrenching the frost fragile digits away in a grip so unrelentingly tight that he is sure his fingers will snap under the pressure. A sharp, hissing intake of breath and the stink of pipe smoke mixed with a burning inferno of fire and anger threatens to overwhelm him as through the slits that they have cut for his eye he sees his Father's face leaning in so close to him that if he wanted to; he could almost reach out and touch the inky blue vein that is throbbing an angry, pulsating beat in the older man's temple.

'_Never _do that again Erik. Do you understand?' The voice is deadly quiet, full of barely contained furiously icy anger as he feels sudden, unwanted pricks of fiery pain stabbing at the backs of his eyelids and wills them away because he cannot let his Father see him cry. Men, real men don't cry, he tells himself fiercely as he manages a small, mute nod; biting back a cry of pain as the pressure on his knuckles tightens and he is sure that the bones will snap if it continues. _Yes, _he thinks in a sudden, inexplicable wave of helpless anger. _Yes, he understands. _He understands all too well; has been able to read the looks of mingled horror, pity and disgust that had been thrown his way ever since he was deemed old enough to be seen in public without disgracing himself and his family honour. But there are still questions, still far too many questions that are burning up inside him, choking him, suffocating him in a grip so tight it is sometimes hard to breathe, that he desperately needs answers to; but knows deep down that he will never get them.

He can feel the weight of his father's gaze on him; dark, onyx coloured eyes boring into his core, scorching his fragile, five-year-old soul with a stare so painfully disapproving he feels his lower lip threaten to wobble again. _He will not cry. He must not cry. He must don his armour like a man and show no signs of weakness. Weakness is only for women, babes in arms and cowards. Not men. Not even men forced to wear a mask._

Swallowing painfully, he feels his teeth bite down on the offending muscle until he can taste the sweet, metallic saltiness of blood gushing over his teeth and knows that he has conquered his fear, that he is not going to cry, that he cannot cry; not here, not now.

'I am sorry if I have disappointed you Father', his voice wavers slightly as a five-year-olds might; but he swallows and wills himself to carry on as if nothing had happened; as if the crack in the invisible, metaphorical mask that he has donned every single day for the past five years and will continue to don for as long as he lives has not cleaved through him like a knife slashing through cloth, that everything is as it should be, even though it isn't and never will be.

The hand that lands on his shoulder is rough yet firm as he looks up through the shadowy candlelight into the shaded mask that is his Father's face. The eyes are hard, narrowed yet not unkind as he nods and claps the thin linen of his sons' dark jacket in another silent gesture before turning on his heel and sweeping out of the room into the shadowy, lamp-lit passageway in a swirl of black satin; leaving his son alone. Leaving his son alone and frightened as a silver sliver of moonlight slips out from behind a heavy, indigo cloud and illuminates the high slashed glass of the huge bay windows that look out onto a darkened city shrouded by sleep's thick invisibility cloak; wondering if and when he will ever find the answers to the myriad of unspoken questions that he so desperately craves.

_**Fin**_

_**A/N: Please feel free to read and review! Comments, questions, suggestions, constructive criticisms etc are like chocolate to my brain! **_

_**Much love and enjoy x**_


End file.
